


it’s better to laugh than it is to lie

by blackberry_jam



Series: The Losers Club Character Studies [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon-typical bullying, Canon-typical language, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Unrequited Crush, canon-typical offensive slurs, it’s almost canon compliant, let’s say it’s canon adjacent, mainly based on the 2017 movie but with aspects from the book, richie tozier centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberry_jam/pseuds/blackberry_jam
Summary: Richie’s vision is blurred, but he can make out Eddie, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates, and in that second, he thinks he might be able to fall in love with him....or, Richie’s journey as he sorts out his feelings.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club - Relationship
Series: The Losers Club Character Studies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003953
Kudos: 35





	it’s better to laugh than it is to lie

**Author's Note:**

> title, rather fittingly, from ‘to love a boy’ by maya hawke
> 
> content warning -  
> f-slur used offensively multiple times throughout the story, canon-typical language, minor internalised homophobia, very minor depictions of blood, discussions of homophobic religious beliefs.
> 
> also, it should be known that i wrote this by picking and choosing from the miniseries, muschetti movies and the book (eg, no sewer orgies)

Richie Tozier is ten years and six months old when he first hears it. He doesn’t even know what it means.

Back when it was just the four of them - Richie, Eddie, Bill, Stan - in the days when Richie’s jokes were tamer, and Eddie wasn’t attached to his fanny pack. When Bill’s stutter was only noticeable if you really listened and Stan didn’t dress like the world’s tiniest adult. 

It was in the middle of summer, in the Derry heat that makes your shirt sticky against your back and the pavements blindingly bright. The day in question was a rare one, all four of them - Richie, Eddie, Bill and Stan - were all allowed out of the house, by themselves, with no adults. They each had a dollar, saved from Birthday money or Christmas gifts or a few odd chores, and they were outside the small corner store, vanilla soft-serve ice cream melting in the waffle cones, running down their fingers and wrists in sticky streams.

There was a bench outside the small shop, that fit three of them, if they squished in tight, and on the day, Richie had been the last out of the shop. Despite his desperate efforts to push his friends out of the way without dropping his ice cream cone, a difficult feat indeed, he had been left without a seat.

This was fine, good even, as it gave him the opportunity for a joke. This was the problem. Richie Tozier was willing to do anything if he got the smallest laugh, the smallest bit of encouragement. He’d embarrass himself to no end, ranging from shouting in the street to harassing innocent the odd passerby, and on this day it consisted of making a huge, over exaggerated act, of hunting for a spot, hands pressed against his thick glasses, pushing them into his forehead hard enough to leave an imprint, in the shape of binoculars. It earned him a few giggles, from Eddie, an exaggerated sigh, from Stan, and a chuckle, from Bill. It was enough from him to keep it up. After a few moments, he gave a mock exclamation of surprise before throwing himself onto the bench, spread out over his friends laps to various reactions.

Stan, who ended up with Richie’s feet sprawled over his legs, sighed heavily, and inspected the soles. Upon finding them mostly clean, he resulted to untying the mangled mess that was his once white, now significantly more grey, shoelaces.

Bill blinked a few times in shock, to which Richie grinned even wider at, before composing himself and slamming his elbow into Richie’s middle. Richie responded with an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back and sticking his tongue out of his mouth, making a few gagging sounds before closing his eyes and going limp, his hair splayed out behind his head like a halo. He played dead for a few seconds, before cracking open an eye and grinning up at Eddie.

Eddie rolled his eyes and held his melty ice cream cone over his face, letting a few drops fall before snatching it back. Richie pouted slightly, bringing out a hand to wipe the melted ice cream off his face, before returning the smile to his face. Eddie peered down at him, took one look at his dirty glasses and clucked. He picked them off his face, to Richie’s complaints, and cleaned them on the hem of his tee shirt. 

These were the times when Richie felt most like himself. His friends were there, and they were laughing at him, because he said or did something funny, not because he was being made fun of. He could say what he wanted, and the missing filter between his brain and his mouth didn’t matter. He could say stuff that he couldn’t otherwise get away with.

The clicking of the shop door drew him out of his thoughts, and they all glanced up to see a group of older looking boys, faceless and nameless, leaving the store, their arms laden with cans of soda and an ice cream cone clasped in each hand.

The boys stepped out onto the pavement, and took one look at the four of them, squished into the small bench. 

One of the boys, with tight black curls in his hair, slicked back, turns to his friends with a snicker. “Faggots.” He hisses, a sinister laugh bubbling in his throat.

Richie furrows his brow, and in his peripheral vision he can see similar expressions on Bill and Eddie’s faces. He can’t see Stan’s.

The rest of the older buys laugh, and one of them throws his ice cream cone, hitting Richie square in the chest. They laugh harder, and move on, footsteps heavy against the ground.

They are all frozen in a stunned silence, until Stan pushes Richie’s feet off his legs and stands up, his lips pursed, like he knows something the others don’t. Richie is quick to clamber up, wiping at the mess of ice cream spilt over the front of his shirt. Bill and Eddie get to their feet behind them. They’re all silent as Eddie digs around in his pocket and passes over a tissue to Richie who accepts it with a weak smile. 

“Let’s go home,” Stan said, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on his sneakers. “There’s nothing else to do around here, anyway.”

“What’s it mean?” Bill had asked, with that childhood innocence that dissolves rapidly as the years trickle past. 

Stan had only shrugged, refusing to meet their eyes and turned down the street to go. They’d all hurried to chase after him, and the encounter drained away from their memories, buried over time by other memories of other insults and thrown items. Leaving only the stain in Richie’s shirt to remember it by.

  
  
  
  


Richie asks his parents about it that night at dinner. 

Sitting up in his chair, his knee pressed against the side of his head, no matter how many times his mum asks him to please put your leg down and to just sit properly, Richie, for the love of God, and picking through his roast chicken that his dad had spent a long time cooking while his mum peeled the vegetables.

“What’s a faggot?” He asks, as if it’s no more than asking about what the weather is like.

His mum, in the middle of taking a sip of water, spits the liquid back into her glass with a surprised gasp. His dad places his knife and fork in the side of his plate, glancing over at him, an odd expression on his face.

His mum seems to recover quickly, placing her orange painted glass down and looking over at him. “Why are you asking, honey? Did someone say something?”

Richie shrugs, uncomfortable under her gaze. He resolves to tell her a half-truth. “Not to me. Just overheard it. What does it mean?”

His mum breathes what seems to be a sigh of relief. “It’s a mean thing to say, a mean word for two boys, or two girls, who love each other.”

Richie wrinkles his nose. “I love dad, am I not allowed too?”

His dad smiles, softly but sadly. “Your mother means two boys who love each other like your mother and I love each other. Someone you want to kiss, or marry.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Richie asked, stabbing a chunk of buttered potato with his fork. 

His mother is quick to shake her head. “Of course not, sweetie. It’s just some people, rude people, don’t have… open minds, and they don’t understand it. The only way they can think to cope with something, something that’s different to what they are used to is to make fun of it.”

Richie nods, even though he doesn’t really understand what she’s talking about, and turns back to his meal.

“Are you sure someone didn’t say something?” His mother asks, noticing the unsure expression on his face. “Do I need to call someone’s parents?”

Richie shakes his head, hurriedly, there’s no need to upset her any further. “No, just heard it at the corner shop today and wondered what it meant.”

His mother seems satisfied with that answer, and scoops a mouthful of peas up as his father picks up his cutlery again. Richie doesn’t ask again.

-

Richie Tozier is ten years and eleven months old when Bill drops his lunch bag onto their usual lunch table and announces that he is planning to ask out Mary Jones from their class. Mary Jones sits in front of Richie and always has a rainbow of shiny butterfly clips in her hair, and always wears a clean blouse, which Richie admires, because he can never find a new one for everyday, no matter how many items Eddie berates him for it, but he would never ‘ask her out’, whatever that means.

Stan is quick to weigh in his opinion. “Mary Jones? With the blonde hair?” Bill nods and Stan makes a so-so gesture with his free hand.

“Which one’s Mary Jones?” Eddie asks, unwrapping the plastic from around his sandwich.

“Sits in front of me.” Richie supplies, leaning over to snatch a chip from Bill’s lunch.

Bill slaps his hand away, and nods at Eddie.

“She helped me with my maths, once,” Eddie says, “She seems nice.”

“She is.” Bill nods again.

“Girls, ick,” Richie adds. Eddie nods in agreement.

“My mum says we’re too young to date.” 

“What about you, Stan?” Richie asks, with a large wink. “Any special ladies in your life?”

Eddie giggles. “Stan likes Marcie Scott.” 

“Fuck you.” Stan snaps, leaning across the table to hit at his shoulder. “I told you that in confidence.”

“Guh-Gonna ask her out?” Bill asks.

Stan shakes his head.

“Pussy.” Richie teases.

“Maybe I will ask her then,” Stan snaps, turning on him. “And then I won’t have any time left to hang out with you. Is that what you want?”

Richie shakes his head, quickly, but his mind is racing. “Sorry, Stan.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to date a girl if it means he has to stop hanging out with Eddie and Bill and Stan.

-

Richie Tozier is eleven years and three months old when he hears it again. 

Making his way out of the Aladdin theatre, his yo-yo in his hand, bouncing down then up, down then up, and his eyes down, Henry Bowers is waiting with a mouth full of foul language and a fist ready to spread a blooming of bruises and a nosebleed to the first person he comes across.

Unfortunately, he’s ambushed. The only small favour is that Henry’s alone, and after a few hits, a broken arm of his glasses and what he is almost sure is a broken nose he manages to get away. 

His glasses clasped in his fist, the broken arm hanging weakly off the edge of the frames, his vision, already bad, blurred with tears, he staggers his way off. He’s not sure where he’s going, and it must be muscle memory, because one hand is still held feebly under the bloody, dripping, mess that is his nose, and suddenly he’s at Eddie’s house.

Without even thinking, he stumbles towards the front door, knocking three times, not worrying about what will possibly happen to him, and his friendship with Eddie, if Sonia Kaspbrak is the one to open it.

Thankfully, thank God for small favours, it’s Eddie behind the weathered wood of the door frame, and with a high pitched cry of, “what the fuck happened to you?” he’s ushered inside and dragged by the elbow to the upstairs bathroom. 

Sitting up on the faux marble bench, the bite of the cool ceramic sink digging into the back of his legs, with Eddie shoving tissue after tissue in his hand and pestering him about what happened, wasn’t how he had planned to spend his Saturday, but he wasn’t really complaining.

“What happened?” Eddie asks, his back turned as he digs through the overly large first aid kit that is scattered out over the bench, but it’s less of a ‘oh, my goodness, who did this to you, I was so worried’ voice and more of a ‘I can’t believe you, you absolute idiot’ voice.

“Henry Bowers,” Richie says, simply. “I think he broke my nose.”

Eddie furrows his brow, and turns back to him, reaching up and grabbing Richie’s hands and the bloody tissues away from his face. Richie cried out, as Eddie grabbed his chin and inspected his nose closely. After a moment, he shook his head and handed back the tissues. 

“Not broken, he probably just hit a blood vessel,” He produces an instant ice pack from the cabinet behind him and cracks it, jumping up onto the bench beside him and holding it out. “For the bruising.”

Richie takes it with his spare hand and does his best ‘it doesn’t hurt at all’ grin. “Lucky I’ve got you, Doctor K.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that, asshole, I’ve told you befo— hey, don’t lean back or the blood will go back into your brain.”

Richie sighs, and makes a big show of sitting forwards. “Happy?”

Eddie shakes his head, as if he’s exhausted and goes back to digging through the first aid kit.

“My mum will probably kill me,” Richie winces, waving his broken glasses towards the other boy. “She just bought me these. After I broke my old ones.”

Eddie holds out his hand for them, without even looking and Richie places them on his hand without a second thought. Eddie pulls out some medical tape and starts to wrap the broken arm into place. 

Richie’s nose has stopped bleeding, so he balls up the tissues and says in his best sports announcer voice, “and Richie Tozier, number 69, lines up for the shot.” He aims the makeshift ball at the bin standing by the door, throwing it. They bounce off the side of the rim and fall onto the floor.

Eddie shakes his head, but he’s grinning when he says, “you’re such an idiot.”

Richie smiles.

Eddie finishes with the tape, and rips the edge of it off. Richie, watching him through blurred eyes grins. “What would I do without you, Eddie Spaghetti?”

Eddie sighs at the nickname, but moves over to cleaning the glass lenses. “Probably die.” He inspects his handiwork, before turning to Richie and placing his glasses on his face, gently, so as not to hurt his already bruising nose.

Richie’s vision is blurred, but he can make out Eddie, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates, and in that second, he thinks he might be able to fall in love with him.

-

Richie Tozier is eleven years and seven months when they all spend time together, and it’s memorable enough that he swears he’ll never forget it. 

They’ve been friends for years, so they know who’s house they had to meet at if they want to have anything that resembles fun.

It’s always Richie’s house. 

Bill’s parents are okay, but they can get antsy if you get too loud, and there’s also the added bother of Bill’s brother, who really just wants to be included, but can get on your nerves. Eddie’s mum is, well, she’s Eddie’s mum, and she doesn’t like Richie with his loudmouth and his messy hair, and she doesn’t like Stan that Jewboy, and she doesn’t like Bill because of his stutter. Stan’s parents get snappy easily, and they are often busy with work.

Richie’s parents welcome anyone and everyone into their house. Richie’s pretty sure they’re just glad he has some friends. 

Whatever the reason, they often meet at Richie’s house, when they’re not running wild around the town or mucking around in the Barrens, to sit around in his room and flick through comic books or watch a rented movie that they’ve probably all seen multiple times. 

Tonight, it’s long after Richie’s parents have gone to bed, and he produces, with a sly grin, a VHS tape from behind his back. “Look what I have!”

“ _ Heathers _ ?” Stan says, skeptically.

Eddie inspects it, his nose turned up. “It says it’s sixteen plus. We’re not sixteen yet.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer, Eddie. Live a little!”

Bill takes it from Eddie’s hands and quickly scans the description on the back. “Let’s watch it.”

Richie’s face lights up, and he takes it back, bouncing up to the television and fiddling around with the tape player, before playing the film and throwing himself into the beanbag beside Eddie, arm against arm, thigh against thigh. Eddie only complains slightly, stretching out his legs, but reluctantly yanking the blanket over so there’s enough for both of them. 

The movie plays, and Richie laughs so hard that Bill has to kick him to get him to shut up so he doesn’t wake up his own parents. Throughout the rest of the movie, if there’s ever a slow point, he mimics, “fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” in a highpitched voice until Stan threatens to turn the movie off. Eddie shuts his eyes and flushes a bright pink when Veronica and J.D. play strip croquet, and Richie tries his hardest, he honestly does, not to tease him. 

By the end of the film, Eddie’s fallen asleep and Stan and Bill are throwing popcorn at each other’s mouths, and Richie wants to join in, but he doesn’t want to wake up Eddie, and besides, if he did like the feel of Eddie’s warm body beside him, no one else has to know, so he slumps down and closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep too. He tries to slow his breathing, matching it to Eddie’s, but his heart is beating so hard he’s afraid everyone can hear it.

After a few minutes of lying still, he hears Bill and Stan talking in hushed whispers, and hears the click of the television turning off. There’s rustling and more whispering, and he’s pretty sure that they pulled out blankets and were sleeping somewhere, the couch, maybe the floor, but he doesn’t open his eyes to check.

At some point he must fall asleep, because he’s woken up by the blanket being pulled away and kicking at his legs. He groans, cracking open his eyes and seeing Eddie standing above him, the blanket gripped in his fist and a frown in his face. “Why didn’t you wake me up, asshole? It’s not good for your back to sleep in a position like that.”

“Maybe I fell asleep before you.” Richie tries, even though he knows he didn’t.

“No. When I went to sleep, Stan was threatening to give you  _ ‘the hangover cure’  _ if you didn’t shut up and let him watch the film.” Eddie argues.

Richie rolls his eyes, in an effort to distract Eddie from what, to him, seemed painfully obvious. “I’m sure your back will be fine. My back hurts after a night with your mum and I’m—”

“Yuck, Richie. That’s disgusting.” Eddie interrupted him, with a grimace.

Richie only laughs, even though he doesn’t find it that funny, and jumps to his feet. “Who wants breakfast?”

-

Richie Tozier is twelve years and ten months old when Eddie says something that makes his heart stop and his stomach drop.

They’re laying out in the sun, on Eddie’s lawn, sunscreen slathered over their pale and not yet sun-kissed faces, as the winter faded into the early sun of springtime, and comic books laid flat over stomachs. The bright green grass is spiky beneath their legs, freshly cut by Mr P, the neighbour, and Mrs Kaspbrak’s poppies are just beginning to bloom.

They watch as two men make their way down the street, hand in hand, heads bowed together in conversation, smiles on their faces. Richie feels his mouth go dry, glancing surreptitiously at Eddie beside him. Eddie’s looking at them, too.

“My mum says they’re sinners,” Eddie said, as if it was something simple, not something that made Richie want to curl up and die. “She says they’re going to Hell.”

“Do you think that?” Richie asked, breathlessly, hoping to God that Eddie couldn’t hear the desperation in his voice.

Eddie was silent for a long time, before saying, “I don’t really believe in Hell or Heaven or anything like that.”

“Oh,” Richie said, pathetically trying to work out if this answer was what he wanted to hear. “Neither do I, I guess.”

“I thought you went to church every Sunday.” Eddie said, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at him. 

Richie shrugged. “Yeah, I do. I don’t really know what to believe. Father Nicholas says some stuff I agree with, but sometimes I don’t.”

Eddie nodded, and they fell into a small silence that wasn’t quite comfortable.

Richie sighed, turning back to his comic book and picking it up, gingerly, his mind racing.

After a few moments, Eddie lay his comic book back down and turned his head to look over at him. “I don’t think they’ll go to Hell, if it’s really a thing.”

Richie felt his insides melt. He could have kissed him, but instead he said: “Cool. Neither do I.”

-

Richie Tozier is thirteen years and three months old when their little group of four turns to seven.

And whilst this feels like puzzle pieces clicking into place, a thought that unreasonably fills him with fear, and the death of Bill’s younger brother from earlier that year still hangs over them like a dark cloud, the extra friendship brightens the prospect of summer immensely.

With the rapid growth comes Ben Hanscom, who is sweet and kind, with the best ideas and follow throughs. It’s not too soon after that, that he has the idea to build a clubhouse. It’s from an old bomb shelter, or something similar, and they dig it out enough to put in furniture, until it’s a comfortable place to be. There’s also Beverly Marsh, with her fiery red hair and seemingly endless supply of cigarettes, that Richie takes great advantage of. Beverly Marsh, who saved Ben’s butt, and then showed them all up at the quarry, is braver than the rest of them combined. And last, but certainly not least, is Mike Hanlon, who lives on the outskirts of town with his Grandfather on a farm. Mike is strong, and kind, and sensitive, with the skills and smarts to do practically anything.

Despite the obvious perks, a group of seven makes it a lot easier to fight off Henry Bowers and his goons, but it comes with new and exciting things to learn - new things about people, like that Ben is really into  _ New Kids on the Block _ , which Richie thinks is stupid, but he knows what it’s like to hav people make fun of things you enjoy, and he knows how it feels, so he doesn’t say anything. But the biggest perk, by far, is the hammock in the clubhouse.

When it was first hung up, they came to an agreement: ten minutes per person. For the first few days, he abides by these rules, spends ten minutes in the hammock before dutifully climbing out and allowing someone else to climb in after him. Then one day, in the midst of the summer of 1989, he loses count of the minutes, and before he can blink, Eddie is standing over him, hands on his hips and looking determined.

They argue for a few minutes, until Eddie shoves his way in beside him, the hammock shaking, wobbling to the side, before slowing as he shoves his legs beside his own. Richie plays it off as cool as he knows how, through a sex joke. 

Eddie kicks him in the face with his socked foot, and he has to move his head away to avoid breaking his glasses again.

-

Richie Tozier is thirteen years and four months old, when the Loser’s club splits up. 

It starts with venturing into number 29 Neibolt street, and turns into Ben’s sliced stomach and Eddie’s broken arm, the rest of them bruised, dirty and scared, and ends with Bill punching him in the face.

He doesn’t speak to any of them, for weeks, not even Eddie, and spends his empty days at the arcade, playing  _ Street Fighter _ , mostly by himself, but sometimes with another kid.

One afternoon, he makes the mistake of playing a game with Connor Bowers. Connor Bowers is cool with a cool hairstyle and a cool outfit, and he’s good at  _ Street Fighter _ , but he also happens to be Henry Bowers cousin. 

The arcade has always been a sort of sanctuary, somewhere he can hide away, so to speak, away from the judgemental street goers and school bullies, where he can be himself. And of course, Henry fucking Bowers has to ruin it, with catcalls of “faggot!”, he entirely ruins the arcade for him.

There’s something different about this time, however, because this is the first time that he’s been called that, that he thinks it might actually be true. And it hurts, because it doesn’t matter if he wants to kiss boys and hug boys and marry boys, because if he wanted to kiss girls and hug girls and marry girls, he’d still play  _ Street Fighter  _ and he’d still read comic books and spend all his pocket money on melty ice cream and shitty horror flicks. And it shouldn’t matter who he loves, but somehow, to people who don’t even know his name, it matters. 

It’s enough to make him cry.

-

Richie Tozier is thirteen years and five months old when he carves something into the kissing bridge.

He does it quickly, his father’s stolen pocket knife clumsy beneath his fingers, as he carves the curve of the R, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, just in case Henry Bowers of Patrick Hocksetter or Victor Criss or Belch Huggins comes up behind him, and somehow figures out the initials, and beats him up for being the very thing the so very frequently accuse him of.

He does it roughly, in jerky movements, a straight line here, another there, until it’s all down, carved into the old wood, and runs his fingers along it, before folding the knife up and shoving it deep in his pocket, as if he could hide all evidence if it completely.

Throwing one last look at the rough,  **R + E** , he turned back off the bridge and towards home.

-

Richie Tozier is thirteen years and eleven months old and he’s faced more than most kids his age have.

I mean, how many people do you know who can say they’ve killed a killer space clown before the time they turn 14?

And in addition to this, he’s managed to keep his super secret crush exactly as the name suggests: super secret. He’s not like Ben, who practically blurted out  _ ‘I love you, Bevvie’  _ with every single word he said to her, coupled with a faint blush and a sheepish smile. No, not him, he hasn't told a soul.

And he’s not going to tell anyone, especially not Eddie, because he’ll probably hate him, and be disgusted by him, and it’s better to enjoy the time they have together, even though it hurts his heart every time he smiles, than tell him and never speak again.

So he takes what he can get, small smiles coupled by a grimace of disgust than accompanies any mum joke, (Richie’ll never admit it, but he only tells the jokes because it gets a rise out of him, gets Eddie’s full attention in him, and he’s good at it, getting Eddie’s attention), small touches of arm against arm, or finger brushes as they hand each other stuff and he learns to love the wrestling matches, that ends with them rolling around in the dirty clubhouse floor, laughing until they cry, arms and legs entangled.

It turns into a sort of hobby for him, annoying Eddie, getting all possible attention on him. He can do it easily, through stupid nicknames and dumb, sexual jokes that aren’t even that funny, but piss him off just the same. He can pinch Eddie’s cheeks, and cry “cute! cute! cute!”, and even though he means it, he can still get the meaning across by laughing it off as a joke.

And maybe he’s okay with that, for a little while, anyway.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> the original plan for this had it ending a lot sadder, but i am weak, so i gave into my inner romantic.
> 
> also, i know that heathers came out in 1989, but it’s my sleepover so i get to choose the movie (literally, though)
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr - @blqckberryjam - and on instagram - @black.berry_jam


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